Archive for February, 2009

The power plant. A georgic. (draft as of 2.25.09)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 26, 2009 by rdunder

The power plant. Or. The lightning.

A georgic.

Begun Inauguration day, 2009.

The epigraph.

“Maybe fire is the opposite principle to light, and comes to the use of those who do not go the way of light. Fire has to consume to give all its light. But light gets its knowledge—and has its intelligence and its being—by going over things without the necessity of eating the substance of things in the process of purchasing their truth. Maybe this is the difference, the different base of not just these two poets, Bill and E.P., but something more, two contrary conceptions of love.”—Charles Olson, “GrandPa, Goodbye”

Or.

“We shall build a tower that will reach to the stars!” Having conceived Babel, yet unable to build it themselves, they had thousands to build it for them. But those who toiled knew nothing of the dreams of those who planned. And the minds that planned the Tower of Babel cared nothing for the workers who built it. The hymns of praise of the few became the curses of the many – BABEL! BABEL! BABEL! – Between the mind that plans and the hands that build there must be a Mediator, and this must be the heart.”

–Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang, Metropolis

Or.

Sometimes all I want is a little more power.

The Poem.

………………………..

“(There is a myth that Prometheus did more than steal fire from the sun and bring it down to man: it is said that Prometheus fathered man.)”

There was a stadium.

My father hurled the bolt like a javelin.

The stadium became a brain

where electric branches dart from synapses

and this poem billows up like thunderheads.

I am made of lightning.

My father sat in the cave. Black hair covered him. It was as invisible as his long teeth and simian jaw, but flashes from the storm outside briefly illuminated his body.

Our troop roiled in the murk, bodies swapping blows. An antelope stank somewhere close. I crouched on a rock watching for my father’s inconstant profile.

Sudden light invaded the cave.

L’á venir.

A tree outside caught fire.

My father stood.

He picked up a stick.

He marched toward the flames.

He carried back the power plant.

Our troop howled with fear and shied away from the shadows that shivered on the cave walls. My father had to coax each one of them to the stack of branches that he set alight and kept burning. Some tried to touch the flame and cried in pain at being burned.

I drew my father on the floor with my finger.

Stick figure lifting his torch.

My father gave me light to draw by.

I gave my first drawing to him.

By morning my careful lines had been replaced by a panicked dance of footprints.

Electricity is brevity and power at once.

………………………..

My father works for the Martin Drake power plant in Colorado Springs. Other men make radiators or poems. He makes lightning and puts his sun in your house.

I made up the name Martin Drake.

Martin. Bird wings electric current quick.

Drake. Snake breathing fire.

And for draconian.

The power plant is a martin drake.

My father is a martin drake.

But the power plant is not named Martin Drake.

The power plant doesn’t know its real name.

It’s dressed up in blue metal.

Trace the wires back to their beginnings.

You’ll find the power plant.

Martin Drake was a man the power plant is named for.

I didn’t make up the name.

I never said the wires aren’t tangled.

Go to the power plant. Find the classroom. Pull down the canvas roll wedged between the back wall and the ceiling. Printed on the roll is a schematic, a map of the process. Colored lines delineate the machine’s parts: the coal loader, the oceanic fire in the burners, the boiler blasting steam against pinwheel turbines, sparking bolts day and night. Grey scribbles are clouds hot enough to sublimate my father’s bones in an instant.

If I followed this schematic into the power plant it would lead me nowhere.

It could even lead into the fire.

………………………..

When my cousin was a boy he thought the power plant was a cloud factory.

I thought it was ashes from the coal fires.

My father made Vesuvius.

Actually.

Cooling towers temper the steam used to spin the turbines, allowing the condensed water to be re-circulated. On cool and humid days the rising vapor saturates the damp air and makes a white fog. The clouds are often mistaken for the smoke from a fire.

Pliny’s vaporous pine disintegrates.

The power plant doesn’t have time to be a cloud factory or a fire.

It doesn’t admire its wispy clouds.

It doesn’t care for its floating hair.

Floating on air.

Second grade. A man from city utilities brought a miniature power line and a small gas generator. He carried a frilly dressed baby doll in a thrift store sack. He turned the machine on and my father’s hum turned the air into glass. The man pulled insulated gloves all the way to his elbows while explaining the danger of downed power lines.

He pulled the plastic child from its plastic womb and tossed it against the wires.

An electric shock feels like many things.

A bone cracking shiver.

A reptile snap of jaws.

A phosphorous camera flash.

A flame that burns itself.

The doll caught fire, cradled in the wires. It pitched from its electrified hammock and fell to the floor. A smell like rotting tires rose from the victim. Polyester clothes melted to pink plastic, dripping on the floor, a new fluid of this tortured body.

My father has a power I do not.

The power plant cares for its children like Medea.

Which is quite a lot. However.

People made of lightning should not touch their babies.

They will become lightning.

My father has two children.

He has attended both our cries.

One lets fire lick its guts.

One has coal stains on its skin.

One is a neuter. One is a son.

Which one? Me

or the power plant.

Twelve years after I saw the baby doll burned on electric wires my father told me that the plastic child had been coated in accelerant. Probably the utilities man had doused it with hairspray in the parking lot before he came in. Without a starter the doll never would’ve burned so quickly.

A sacrifice needs spectacles.

A spectacle needs sacrifices.

……………………………

Ring of stones centered in a ring of junipers

where my father taught me the most important thing I ever learned.

To make fire you need

heat (bic lighter)

fuel (newspaper, dry grass, branches)

and air.

My father’s favorite singer is Johnny Cash

who sang “Love

is a burning thing

and it makes

a fiery ring.”

My father stole a flashlight from God’s cabinet.

Then he taught everyone to build flashlights.

That’s how come we have flashlights.

Percy Shelley says my father is as cool as Satan and a nicer guy too.

Herman Melville says my father is reminds him of Ahab.

………………………..

Michel Foucault was a man who knew about power.

“Full lighting and the eye of a supervisor capture better than darkness, which ultimately protected. Visibility is a trap.”

Without the power plant

the panopticon is a big dark room.

I hear turbines howl

when cameras focus on my skin.

Streetlights let us observe

each other as we pass at night.

Whose hands hold the other ends of their wires?

Power is not a force or a practice or a technology.

It is a Proteus of usages.

Where has the power been planted?

I mean to dig it up and show you the roots.

………………………..

Wires run from the power plant to a movie theatre

lighting a marquee reading

FRITZ LANG’S METROPOLIS.

A charge runs into the projector

illuminating steel hallucination

onto a canvas sheet.

Three pistons, the outer pair thrust down

when the inner piston thrusts up.

An eccentric disc.

Eros in cogs and whirring.
`
The machine dance becomes a clock

then becomes a dance of workers.

Two lines of men pass in opposite directions through a pair of gates.

The men going out move twice as a slow as the men going in.

The lines are each six abreast and extend across the shot.

“Between the mind that plans and the hands that build there must be a mediator

and this must be the heart.”

But the heart is a thoughtless fist. A dumb pump.

The heart is more like the power plant than it is like love.

The head must let its mirrors fall

to see through the fingertips.

The hands must reach inside the skull

and fill their palms with sparks. Besides.

I have a head and hands both. So does my father.

The power plant burns allegory into ash

that collects on rails and corrodes paint.

………………………….

A photograph shows the coil rib-caged in a wooden frame.

Two discharges array in the shape of butterfly wings thirty feet across.

Coil’s invisible roots manifest as light.

The white hair of a mad scientist.

Between the discharges a man

sits in a folding chair.

He is reading a book. A bolt strikes inches away. He doesn’t move.

The man is a lightning rod no lightning touches.

He reads the book. Nothing can hurt him.

Because the man won’t be there when the bolt strikes.

The photograph is a double exposure.

I can unite station to station without the aid of wires.

I can make a charge flow through air.

But still I don’t have a power plant.

“My project was retarded by laws of nature.

The world was not prepared for it. It was too far ahead of time.

But the same laws will prevail in the end and make it a triumphal success.”

Which is to say

I can’t make it cohere either.

But I’ve kept the blueprints.

See what you can do with them.

Cells eat like coal burners.

Earth is a small metal ball.

Conductor for currents crossing

a universe that spends itself for fuel.

The present burns the past

to charge the future.

The power plant is a small or large machine made of everything.

Try negative theology.

What is not the power plant?

Read these next lines like Beckett in English.

First lightning almost blinds us.

Only when it flashes can we see

and then we move.

In dark we are blind.

We stand still.

If the lightning had pleased

it would’ve taken our hearing

and our sight.

It has power over anything.

—al Qur’an, Surah 2.20

Please forgive my sin of metonymy.

Nikola Tesla was close to death. He was delirious, and tried to dispatch a messenger with a letter for Mark Twain. It was January 1943. Twain had died in 1910.

When the messenger returned saying that Twain was dead, Tesla reportedly replied, “Don’t you dare tell me Mark Twain is dead. He was in my room, here last night. He sat in that chair and talked to me for an hour. He is having financial difficulties and needs my help. So you go right back and deliver that envelope—and don’t come back until you have done so.” By January 7th Tesla was dead.

A schoolboy in Croatia, Tesla was struck with a series of illnesses. The doctors all but gave up on him. As a pastime he was given a few volumes of Twain’s work. The books absorbed him. Tesla’s spirits were bolstered and he made a sudden recovery.

He reads the book but he can still be hurt.

………………………….

Once I asked a woman to decorate the dream house

in her mind. She filled nothing

with rust brown, hardwood floors and foggy curtains.

I filled this poem with coal.

A burner for her.

A power plant to light the buildings

in her mind. To light the streets she drives.

My father took a wife

and gave her a well-lit city.

This is the work of poetry

to pay for

to power

bulbs and colors

the well-decorated

invisible houses

that make poetry possible.

………………………….

One night my father’s boss told him to burn all the coal in the world.

My father went into the forest and wrung the necks of a million cardinals, plucking their bodies clean, and filling two pillowcases with feathers. He took one bag to the power plant. He pasted the feathers onto the coals so they looked like they were burning.

He took the other bag of feathers to the people of our city. My father gave the feathers to the people, but they didn’t know it. He crept down their chimneys, and put the feathers in their fire places. The people were tricked, and warmed themselves and read books by the color all night. They went to bed and had to set their second blankets aside.

The sun rose on heaps of unburned coal covered in red feathers. My father’s boss was angry and filed a complaint with Human Relations.

So they wired him to the side of Pikes Peak.

Spliced cables straight into his veins.

Every day the martin drake descends steaming

with coal and blood on its steel scaled feathers

to eat his liver.

And every day a surge of power in the wires

brings his liver back to life.

………………………..

I built a new power plant for my father.

It’s made of neat wires and photovoltaic cells.

There are no pipes. No turbines.

No steam. No coal.

No fire but the sun’s.

Silicon lakes washing over rooftops.

Aimed up from every sunward pointed surface.

An offering of sapphires.

Ripe harvest.

My father strides in the sun’s true lamplight.

Reflections from solar panels cast blue panes on his jaw.

Windows through which I can almost see him

and that let in enough light to write by.

He reads the book. Nothing can hurt him.

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Cai Guo-Qiang

Posted in Uncategorized on February 22, 2009 by rdunder

2002_rainbow

http://www.caiguoqiang.com/

Cai Guo-Qiang is a Chinese artist who works in a wide variety of media: installation pieces, video, drawings done in gunpowder, and a unique “performance” art based on Chinese firework displays (he did the displays at the Beijing Olympic ceremonies). These displays are an “event-art” is less dominated by the presence of the artist than in older performance peices (which focus attention on the artist as performer and performance and thus on the artist as the art), but which resemble performance art in their inability to be repeated. The ephemerality and unauthoredness of the firework projects reminds me of Andy Goldsworthy’s work, but where Goldsworthy is a lone searcher in the wilderness, Cai Guo-Qiang’s art forces a communality. One might like to implicate it with Chinese Communism, but the vast socialist force used to bring one of the displays off is somehow made bittersweet by the instantaneousness of the the display itself. These works take political force, so often embodied in light and fire and explosions, and make it productive of beauty rather than productive of power and fear.

cai-guo-qiang1

I mentioned his gunpowder drawings and I am just as interested in these as Cai Guo-Qiang’s firework projects. He lays trails and piles of gunpowder, and arranges cut outs that block the blasts and stamp coherent form on his bold gestures of black and charred brown (his drawings have the same motive quality as Klein’s paintings). When he sets of the powder the whole image is laid down almost immediately. Whats left is a spray of black burns, some objectless, some clear enough to seem like abstracted suns, mountains or rivers. Most chilling though are the reverse shapes, which can’t help but remind one of the reverse images of people vaporized by the Hiroshima blast. Cai Guo-Qiang actually contributed a mural to the new Hiroshima art museum.

I want very much to look at writing in the same way I look Cai Guo-Qiang’s gunpowder drawings. The act of placing a line of text on the page is like creating an explosion by carefully arranging the variables. Once this explosion occurs it’s results can be obscured but the blast itself can never be repeated. And all that remains is a black trace of that momentary creation, of the author’s momentary presence. And yet, as the gunpowder drawings prove, even the remnants of an unknowable event can have their own beauty.

Cai Guo-Qiang’s aesthetic guides the representation of explosive force in my georgic enough that I include him in this quickly expanding wonder cabinet.

I also decided to include a poem I considered putting in the georgic, but it’s a little too far afield formally and topically for that. So here you go:

Ars Poetica (for Cai Guo-Qiang): Operation Ploughshares

Destroy nothing. Create nothing.—Mao Tse-Tung

In 1961 the Atomic Energy Commission detonated a 3.1 kiloton nuclear device at the bottom of a 1,116 foot shaft sunk near salt and potash mines 40 miles from Carlsbad in southern New Mexico (This is what I feel). This test was part of a program called Operation Ploughshares researching peacetime applications for nuclear weapons as tools for public works projects (when I write my poem.) Scientists hoped the escaping steam produced by the explosion could be harnessed to produce electricity (Bombs go off). When the bomb went off, the steam vented faster than the experts had anticipated, bursting out the top of the shaft and fumigating the assembled reporters and UN dignitaries with radioactive vapor (painting beauty beneath my skin.) Six months later crews drilled down to the blast site. They entered a chamber 80 feet wide and 170 feet tall. The temperature was still around 140 degrees Fahrenheit. Charred stone glittered. Stalactites of melted salt oozed on the ceiling. Radiation dyed each surface a different shade of green, violet, blue.

(Piping explosion through a chimney

over the world. Unsuspecting.

Metropolis

Posted in Uncategorized on February 21, 2009 by rdunder

metropolis-poster

I have a section about Fritz Lang’s 1927 movie in my georgic. The film is a hallucination, from a time when the moving image had yet to break its initial reliance on the static figure dominant in the more plastic arts. Metropolis established the look of “the future” to a mass audience. I’m suspicious of the film’s ethic, a confused mix of socialism and christian idealism, but the visual style is irreproachable. And just this summer they found a full cut of the film, containing sections that had been missing for decades. So there will probably be a new DVD you should look at soon. Although it will probably be on Blueraytooth or whatever by then.

Here’s one of the most gloriously unsubtle scenes in this very unsubtle film. As my friend Cory said about a different movie, It’s hella symbolic. Hope you like jodhpurs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlZDNf_12sk

Ekphrasis

Posted in Uncategorized on February 20, 2009 by rdunder

cspringsmpp19253

Above: Colorado Springs Municipal Light & Power Plant, 1925.

martindrake3

Above: On the same site about 80 years later, the Martin Drake Municipal Power Plant. All apologies to Bill Wheeler for using his great photo without asking, but maybe if you go to his site at photo.net/photos/wmwhee he wont be too mad at me. He takes good pictures.

The power plant. A georgic. (draft as of 2.19.09)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 20, 2009 by rdunder

The power plant. Or. The lightning.

A georgic.

Begun Inauguration day, 2009.

The epigraph.

“Maybe fire is the opposite principle to light, and comes to the use of those who do not go the way of light. Fire has to consume to give all its light. But light gets its knowledge—and has its intelligence and its being—by going over things without the necessity of eating the substance of things in the process of purchasing their truth. Maybe this is the difference, the different base of not just these two poets, Bill and E.P., but something more, two contrary conceptions of love.”

—Charles Olson, “GrandPa, Goodbye”

Or.

“We shall build a tower that will reach to the stars!” Having conceived Babel, yet unable to build it themselves, they had thousands to build it for them. But those who toiled knew nothing of the dreams of those who planned. And the minds that planned the Tower of Babel cared nothing for the workers who built it. The hymns of praise of the few became the curses of the many – BABEL! BABEL! BABEL! – Between the mind that plans and the hands that build there must be a Mediator, and this must be the heart.”

–Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang, Metropolis

Or.

Sometimes all I want is a little more power.

………………………..

The Poem.

………………………..

“(There is a myth that Prometheus did more than steal fire from the sun and bring it down to man: it is said that Prometheus fathered man.)”

There was a stadium.

My father hurled the bolt like a javelin.

The stadium became a brain

where electric branches dart from synapses

and this poem billows up like thunderheads.

I am made of lightning.

My father sat in the cave. Black hair covered him. It was as invisible as his long teeth and simian jaw, but flashes from the storm outside briefly illuminated his body.

Our troop roiled in the murk, screaming bodies swapping aimless blows. An antelope stank somewhere close. I crouched on a rock watching for my father’s inconstant profile.

Rending light invaded the cave.

L’á venir.

A tree outside caught fire.

My father stood.

He picked up a stick.

He marched toward the flames.

He carried back the power plant.

Our troop howled with fear and shied away from the shadows that shivered on the cave walls. My father had to coax each one of them to the stack of branches that he set alight and kept burning. Some tried to touch the flame and cried in pain at being burned.

I drew my father on the floor with my finger.

Stick figure lifting his torch.

My father gave me light to draw by.

I gave my first drawing to him.

By morning my careful lines had been replaced by a panicked dance of footprints.

Electricity is brevity and power at once.

………………………..

My father works for the Martin Drake power plant in Colorado Springs. Other men make radiators or poems. He makes lightning and puts his sun in your house.

I made up the name Martin Drake.

Martin for a bird that falls fast as electric currents.

Drake. Snake breathing fire.

And for draconian.

The power plant is a martin drake.

My father is a martin drake.

But the power plant is not named Martin Drake.

The power plant doesn’t know its real name.

It’s dressed up in blue metal.

Trace the wires back to their beginnings.

You’ll find the power plant.

Martin Drake was a man the power plant is named for.

I didn’t make up the name.

I never said the wires aren’t tangled.

Go to the power plant. Find the classroom. Pull down the canvas roll wedged between the back wall and the ceiling. Printed on the roll is a schematic, a map of the process. Colored lines delineate the machine’s parts: the coal loader, the oceanic fire in the burners, the boiler blasting steam against pinwheel turbines, sparking bolts day and night. Grey scribbles are clouds hot enough to sublimate my father’s bones in an instant.

If I followed this schematic into the power plant it would lead me nowhere.

It could even lead into the fire.

………………………..

When my cousin was a boy he thought the power plant was a cloud factory.

I thought it was ashes from the coal fires.

My father made Vesuvius.

Actually.

Cooling towers temper the steam used to spin the turbines, allowing the condensed water to be re-circulated. On cool and humid days the rising vapor saturates the damp air and makes a white fog. The clouds are often mistaken for the smoke from a fire.

Pliny’s vaporous pine disintegrates.

The power plant doesn’t have time to be a cloud factory or a fire.

It doesn’t admire its wispy clouds.

It doesn’t care for its floating hair.

Floating on air.

Second grade. A man from city utilities brought a miniature power line and a small gas generator. He carried a frilly dressed baby doll in a thrift store sack. He turned the machine on and my father’s hum turned the air into glass. The man pulled insulated gloves all the way to his elbows while explaining the danger of downed power lines.

He pulled the plastic child from its plastic womb and tossed it against the wires.

An electric shock feels like many things.

A bone cracking shiver.

A reptilian snap of jaws.

A phosphorous camera flash.

A flame that burns itself.

The doll caught fire, cradled in the wires. It pitched from its electrified hammock and fell to the floor. A smell like rotting tires rose from the victim. Polyester clothes melted to pink plastic, dripping on the floor, a new fluid of this tortured body.

My father has a power I do not.

The power plant cares for its children like Medea.

Which is quite a lot. However.

People made of lightning should not touch their babies.

They will become lightning.

My father has two children.

He has attended both our cries.

One lets fire lick its guts.

One has coal stains on its skin.

One is a neuter. One is a son.

Which one? Me

or the power plant.

Twelve years after I saw the baby doll burned on electric wires my father told me that the plastic child had been coated in accelerant. Probably the utilities man had doused it with hairspray in the parking lot before he came in. Without a starter the doll never would’ve burned so quickly.

Every sacrifice needs a spectacle.

……………………………

A ring of stones centered in a ring of junipers

where my father taught me the most important thing I ever learned.

To make fire you need

heat (bic lighter)

fuel (newspaper, dry grass, branches)

and air.

My father stole a flashlight from God’s cabinet.

Then he taught everyone to build flashlights.

That’s how come we have flashlights.

Percy Shelley says my father is as cool as Satan and a nicer guy too.

Herman Melville says my father is reminds him of Ahab.

………………………..

Michel Foucault was a man who knew about power.

“Full lighting and the eye of a supervisor capture better than darkness, which ultimately protected. Visibility is a trap.”

Without the power plant

the panopticon is a big dark room.

I hear turbines howl

when cameras focus on my skin.

Streetlights let us observe

each other as we pass at night.

Power is not a force.

It is a Proteus of usages.

………………………..

Wires run from the power plant to a movie theatre

lighting a marquee reading

FRITZ LANG’S METROPOLIS.

A charge runs into the projector

illuminating a dance of workers

onto a canvas sheet.

Two lines of men going opposite directions pass through a pair of gates.

The men going out move half as fast as the men going in.

The lines are each four abreast and extend across the shot.

“Between the mind that plans and the hands that build there must be a mediator

and this must be the heart.”

But the heart is a thoughtless fist. A dumb pump.

The heart is more like the power plant than it is like love.

The head must let its mirrors fall

to see through the fingertips.

The hands must reach inside the skull

and fill their palms with sparks. Besides.

I have a head and hands both. So does my father.

The power plant burns allegory into ash

that collects on rails and corrodes paint.

………………………….

A photograph shows the coil rib-caged in a wooden frame.

Two discharges array in the shape of butterfly wings thirty feet across.

Coil’s invisible roots manifest as light.

The white hair of a mad scientist.

Between the discharges a man

sits in a folding chair.

He is reading a book. A bolt strikes inches away. He doesn’t move.

The man is a lightning rod no lightning touches.

He reads the book. Nothing can hurt him.

Because the man won’t be there when the bolt strikes.

The photograph is a double exposure.

I can unite station to station without the aid of wires.

I can make a charge flow through air.

But still I don’t have a power plant.

“My project was retarded by laws of nature.

The world was not prepared for it. It was too far ahead of time.

But the same laws will prevail in the end and make it a triumphal success.”

Which is to say

I can’t make it cohere either.

But I’ve kept the blueprints.

See what you can do with them.

Cells eat like coal burners.

Earth is a small metal ball.

Conductor for currents crossing

a universe that spends itself for fuel.

The present burns the past

to charge the future.

The power plant is a small or large machine made of everything.

Try negative theology.

What is not the power plant?

………………………….

One night my father’s boss told him to burn all the coal in the world.

My father went into the forest and wrung the necks of a million cardinals, plucking their bodies clean, and filling two pillowcases with feathers. He took one bag to the power plant. He pasted them onto the coals, so they looked like they were burning.

He took the other bag of feathers to the people of our city. My father gave the feathers to the people, but they didn’t know it. He crept down their chimneys, and put the feathers in their fire places. The people were tricked, and warmed themselves and read books by the color all night. They went to bed and had to set their second blankets aside.

The sun rose on heaps of unburned coal covered in red feathers. My father’s boss was angry and filed a complaint with Human Relations.

………………………..

I built a new power plant for my father.

It’s made of neat wires and photovoltaic cells.

There are no pipes. No turbines.

No steam. No coal.

No fire but the sun’s.

Silicon lakes washing over rooftops.

Aimed up from every sunward pointed surface.

An offering of sapphires.

Ripe harvest.

My father strides in the sun’s true lamplight.

Reflections from solar panels cast blue panes on his jaw.

Windows through which I can almost see him

and that let in enough light to write by.

He reads the book. Nothing can hurt him.

A poem in progress.

Posted in Uncategorized on February 20, 2009 by rdunder

This site will be a repository for a long poem I’m writing about my father and the work he does. I’ll try to update with a new draft every few weeks or so, or whenever a big new piece falls into place. Perhaps I’ll  make the occasional comment about writing if I feel like it. I want to show the progress of a long work of the kind that is almost always interpreted only in terms of its final crystallization. This archive is meant to accentuate the palimpsest, instead of concealing it.

teslaandcoil1

Above: Nikola Tesla at his lab in Colorado Springs, 1899. The photograph is a double exposure. Tesla posed separately from the discharges.